


Dead Hearts

by timidghosts



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 12:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3728965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timidghosts/pseuds/timidghosts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life. Death. Life. Theirs was a story in three parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this fic is taken from the Stars song of the same name.

This was only the second time that Thomas had ever had a pistol held to his chest. He'd suppose--later when the shock had worn off for the both of them--that he probably should have anticipated it. That the merchant ship he obtained passage on was traveling a dangerous route, he had known. And that he would, one day, come face to face with the man he had once loved? He had never truly given up hope. But for it to happen in this place, in this way? That was what had them both reeling. Even so, it was a wavering hand that held the gun to him, two seconds too long for Thomas to believe that the man pointing it was the same man that he had known before. No, this man was cold. His eyes were dark and angry and his face was covered in blood. 

This man was not James McGraw. 

He lowered his weapon finally, and in his utter shock dropped it, unfired, where it slid about the cabin with the rocking of the ship back and forth until it came to a halt under the desk. Thomas's eyes flickered to its resting place, just for a second. 

"Thomas?" James asked, clearly disbelieving of what his eyes were telling him, "...you're dead."

Thomas tried to smile, but couldn't quite. It was not as though he was afraid of this man, whoever he was now. He knew that enough of James remained, had yet to be eroded completely by whatever dangerous persona he now embodied, to harm him. But this was not how he had imagined their reunion would be whenever he had allowed himself to hope. How could it have been? 

He hadn't wanted to be on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic, on a voyage back to England where he'd sworn nearly ten years prior that he'd never set foot again. He hadn't expected to leave Boston and the chaos of the New World. He hadn't expected the ship to be boarded by pirates, not this far into the journey. He hadn't expected to see James among them, and he most certainly hadn't expected for him to hold a gun to his chest, even if done unknowingly and in utter disbelief. 

"I did die," Thomas said at last, and he closed his eyes in frustration at the emotion he let slip into his voice as he said it. "The moment I set foot in Bethlem. I died and became someone new." 

James opened his mouth for a moment but closed it again. He saw it then, Thomas knew. Thomas could see the slight movement of his eyes as they glanced down at his neck, watched as they widened in surprise as well as something else. Something darker. 

James was only a few feet away from him, but he closed the distance quickly and his hands came up to touch the ligature mark around Thomas's neck, the gentle discoloration that was hard to see but was telling in its implications. Thomas flinched and took an automatic step back, leaving James's hand hovering for a few awkward seconds before James's eyes came back up to meet his own. 

"I wanted to get you out of there," James said, and Thomas briefly wondered if there was more than a little self-loathing on his face. He wondered if it hadn't been there the whole time, if he'd only just noticed it now. 

"I know," was all that Thomas could say. 

"Jesus!" James said and the word was laced with rage. He raked his hand through his hair, which loosely framed his weathered face. 

There was a battle still raging on the decks above, and the smoke from the guns was starting to make its way into the room. There were screams like nothing Thomas has ever heard, piercing the tension in the cabin, shaking him in a way he no longer thought possible. To Thomas, it felt like hours had gone by since James had stormed into the cabin, pistol raised. But the gunfire and commotion reminded him that it had only been a few minutes. They reminded him of the pirates who have taken the ship, and that the man standing, stunned, before him was one of them. And by God was he a fearsome sight. 

That was the moment the cabin doors burst open once again and a wild-eyed brute rushed in, his eyes landing immediately on James. 

"You need to get up there," he said a little breathless, a little agitated.

James glanced back to Thomas and Thomas knew that there were a million thoughts racing through his head. No one else would have been able to read him, but Thomas could. He knew that James was calculating the odds. Trying to figure out just how likely he was that they'd see each other alive again. That was when his eyes flickered to the floor, in the direction of the desk and the pistol that lay beneath it. The message was clear: 

_I can't protect you here._

Thomas saw it, but so did the other man. 

"Stay here," James told Thomas finally. "Lock the door and then barricade it as best you can. I'll try to stop anyone from entering but if I can't..." 

"I know," Thomas said calmly and James was looking at him like he didn't know if he wanted to scream or cry. He did neither and instead turned and ran into the storm. The other man stayed behind for a moment longer, his eyes gazing curiously around the room before meeting Thomas's. There was a question there, but he didn't say a thing, instead he turned to follow James out the door. 

It was nearly another hour before Thomas saw him again. He had locked the door but he hadn't barricaded it. Instead he sat calmly upon a large chair behind the desk, grabbing the pistol and setting it gently on the table. He knew he'd never use it. Knew that if any one of these men were intent on it, they'd get through those doors and fire their guns before he could even reach for his. But he had died before and he no longer feared it. 

It was James that finally walked through the door again, however. His face was dirtier than it had been even an hour before, and there was a new smattering of blood on it, along his jaw line. Thomas knew in an instant that it wasn't his own. 

"You can come out now," James said more gently than Thomas expected, "it's over." 

"The Captain?" Thomas asked.

The Captain of this merchant ship had been the one to send Thomas down there, explaining that it was probably the safest place to be when the pirates boarded. He had then gone back up to be with his men as they attempted to fight off the horde. Thomas knew then that it would be the last time he saw him. It had been. James confirmed it with a small shake of his head. 

James didn't wait for Thomas to say anything more; he turned and walked through the door, ascending the stairs up onto the hazy deck. Thomas followed a few steps behind, a strange sort of apprehension taking hold of him. Out on the open deck the slaughter became more apparent. There were piles of bodies, too many to count, some with blood still oozing out, seeping into the wood. He was surrounded by painted men, hunger and bloodlust written all over their faces as they encircled a cowering group of survivors, taunting and jeering and delighting in victory. And then he saw it, what he should have known all along and yet somehow never suspected. He watched as the men all stopped, their jeers died in their throats, and their triumphant smiles faded. They were all looking at James as he walked among them. He wasn't just one of them, he was their leader, and suddenly Thomas _knew_. 

This wasn't James McGraw. 

\--- 

_"Captain Flint?" A fisherman had asked. He and his crewmate were seated next to Thomas in the small, poorly lit tavern near the harbor. "I've never heard of him."_

_It had been seven months since he'd left the asylum, six since he'd left England, bound for the New World. Even as far as Boston news of the fearsome pirates that plagued the Caribbean waters spread. Fisherman repeated tales of their gruesome and dreadful feats, too fanciful to be believed, and merchants cursed their names._

_"Heard he killed an earl not long ago, Alfred Hamilton was the name, I think," the other man said, and there was a tinge of respect in his voice. "Caused quite a stir in Charles Town, the governor of the Carolina colony has sworn vengeance on any pirate that crosses his path."_

_That was the first Thomas had heard of the death of his father, but the news of Alfred Hamilton's brutal murder had reverberated throughout the Americas. Coldly, as he quietly eavesdropped on the conversation next to him, all Thomas could do when he heard those words was marvel at the irony of his father’s death, at the hands of the people Thomas had hoped to transform and legitimize, to stop this endless violence. The people Thomas had hoped to save, but Alfred Hamilton had wanted to condemn._

_Thomas's thoughts turned then, as they often did, to the day he first met James. He had seen a man die that day, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last. The image of the pirate swinging from the noose was one that came to him on occasion. It was a reminder of what he had fought for. A reminder that he had chosen the wrong battle and he would live with that for the rest of his life._

\--- 

"You're him," Thomas said at last when they'd safely boarded the Spanish man-of-war and were inside the captain's cabin. "You're Captain Flint." 

James gave a small nod, but Thomas could see the tiny twitch of his lips as he suppressed the grimmest of smiles. To his disgust, Thomas recognized it for what it was: pride. Pride that Thomas had heard his name, all those thousands of miles away. 

"Is it true what they say about you?" Thomas spat. There was more anger in his voice than he realized that he was capable of. "Is it true that you kill people? They say you destroyed Charles Town. Men, women, children, murdered in the street." 

"I've killed, yes," he admitted plainly, but Thomas didn't miss the shadow that passed over his face, like a fire had been put out and only the embers remained. "I make no excuses, except to say that I have always done what's necessary for Nassau. For you." And when he said that last part it was so quiet that Thomas didn't think he'd ever be certain that he hadn't imagined it. 

After that there was a quiet that lasted too long. And even though they were standing right beside each other, neither one of them knew how to reach the other through the darkness. 

A gentle rasp on the door interrupted the awkward silence. 

"Captain? Do you have a moment?" They both heard from the other side of the door. 

"Come in," James said gruffly and shot Thomas a warning look. 

_Don't do anything stupid_ , it said. But there was that lingering echo. 

_I can't protect you here._

The door opened to a tall, young man with a wary look on his grimy face. The man shot Thomas a dark but curious look. Thomas knew that there were only two other men taken from the merchant ship he had been aboard, two strong, young men who could live this life and contribute something to the crew. Thomas was neither of those things, and if he were anyone else he would have been left like the others aboard a damaged ship that would never sail again. Left to die. 

"What is it?" James asked brusquely and the man's attention turned back to his captain. 

"Can I speak to you in private?" He asked, eying Thomas as he did so. 

James glanced over to the window seat where Thomas was and then back to the man. He gave a little nod and the two of them walked outside and shut the door. Sitting in the silence of the now empty cabin, Thomas could hear the sounds of their voices as they became more heated. 

_"It's none of their concern!"_ He heard James snap in aggravation. 

_"Everything that happens on this ship is_ all _of our concern."_

_"Not this,"_ James insisted. 

_"Fine,"_ the man said. _"Keep your secrets, if you think you can afford any more."_

_"I know exactly what I can and cannot afford. I don't need the reminder,"_ and Thomas could just about hear the undercurrent of a threat in each of their voices. As he heard the sounds of one set of feet retreating back up the stairs, the door opened and James entered before shutting it again--heavily--and collapsing back into his chair. It was the first time since the ordeal started that James had allowed Thomas to see his vulnerability. In his tiredness he looked... old. 

Thomas moved towards him, almost instinctively. Every ounce of anger and frustration and fear seemed to have evaporated, if only temporarily. Instead he felt a sudden, inexplicable loosening of his chest, and a compulsion to touch James's face, to be sure that he was real. And for a second it was though they were in London, ten years earlier, sitting comfortably in the silence of James's little room.

"You haven't asked about her," James said suddenly, gently grabbing the hand that was pressed against his face and pushing it away. 

Thomas closed his eyes. Part of him wasn't sure he wanted to know. To him--until the moment he saw James burst through the cabin door back on the besieged merchant ship--she was living quietly and peacefully somewhere. When Thomas was taken, he had expected James to take her with him, for them to look out for each other, build a home together. But when Thomas saw James here, like this, he was certain that there were only two possibilities. The first, that the two of them had gone their separate ways, and she was safe and happy somewhere else. The other, that she was dead. 

"When... when did she...?" He couldn't bring himself to say the words, but he knew all the same. He could see it on James's ashen face. 

She was gone. 

\--- 

_When Thomas met Miranda for the first time there was a spark in her eyes and a hint of a smile that told him that she knew all of his secrets without his having to say a word. She was worldlier than her youth suggested, and more curious than anyone he had even met--saving, perhaps, himself._

_Miranda was not an idealist, she did not hold a single pretense or wish to change the world, only to live in it happily and do good in whatever small corner she inhabited. But she challenged him, and she respected him, when so few others had. It was more than enough for him to love her in his own way._

_They never formally came to their arrangement; never spoke the words out loud. She would bring home her lovers and provide a smokescreen for his own. She did so uncomplainingly, and unselfishly bared the whispers and the glares with a serene smile on her otherwise defiant face._

_Thomas had always had a calm, unflappable demeanor. At his most passionate he could be inspiring, but never intimidating, never unkind. Miranda used to tease him, telling him that for someone who enjoyed playing devil's advocate, he did so resemble an angel. The first pang of jealousy he ever felt towards her, however, was when he caught the lieutenant leaving her room one afternoon, his usually tidy uniform tellingly disheveled, if only slightly._

_"Thomas," James had said, visibly surprised and more than a little sheepish. His face and ears turning a bright red, and there was an unmistakable look of guilt upon it._

_Thomas could see him quietly trying to work out an excuse, a reason for why he would be in their home while believing Thomas to be away on business. But Thomas also knew that James had heard the same rumors that everyone else had. The ones that spoke of Lady Hamilton and her army of lovers, and that her hapless husband sat by and did nothing._

_"It's alright," Thomas said reassuringly, placing a hand on James's shoulder, never missing the slight hitch in James's breath as he did so, "There is no need for excuses. You are a good man, James, and all I've ever wanted for my wife is her happiness."_

_James gave him a peculiar look in that moment. His face had softened but somehow his eyes seemed to become dark and disquieted. He held Thomas's gaze for a second too long. It was a quiet challenge._

_Miranda interrupted the silence by making her presence known with the subtlest clearing of her throat. She stood at the top of the stairs, her mouth drawn a little too taut. She had been watching the two of them, and whatever it was she saw on their faces in that moment, she never took James to bed again._

\---

It would be three more days until they reached Nassau. Thomas had spent most of it in the James's cabin, and James had spent most of it up above with his crew. The times he did venture down below it was to pore over endless compilations of plans and logs. Sometimes James brought food for him, other times the cook did. 

Neither of them spoke much, neither of them so much as smiled at the other. There was no intimacy left between them, no warmth anymore. And yet, when they were both in the same space, neither could help but glance over at the other. There was a certain kind of tension, an agitation that existed between the both of them once the quiet had settled and the shock had worn off. Perhaps that was why James had spent most of his time elsewhere. Perhaps that was why Thomas had chosen to stay locked away, not from the other men, but from him. 

Thomas did, however, learn what had brought the crew so far away from Nassau. He'd been told that there was a woman who'd wound up in the hands of the navy, on her way back to England. An important woman, who, it was felt by some, was vital to the success of Nassau--or at least, it was vital that the navy should not have her. News had spread that the ship carrying her had stopped off in Boston before making its way back, allowing James and his men time to anticipate their path and meet them far away from the safety of the heavily protected ports of the north. It had turned out their intelligence had been wrong, that the ship carrying her had passed through those waters more than a week before. With no other option than to turn back, the crew had elected to attack the next merchant ship to cross their path to refill their dwindling supplies, and to ensure that the journey wasn't a complete loss. That, it would seem, was where fate had intervened. 

For his part, Thomas had elected to return to England reluctantly. It had been loyalty that compelled him. To a dying friend, someone he had met in Boston shortly after his own arrival there, but had since returned to England. Now, Thomas supposed, he'd never see him again. Loss, and the reminders of that loss, were a constant in his life, but he couldn't stop from feeling each like a cold and agonizing blade to the stomach. 

\---  
_Two months in the asylum was all it took for Thomas to lose himself entirely. There had been more than one attempt to end it, but the third one was the one that brought him the closest. It was a makeshift noose, and it had almost worked. Brought him to the point of losing consciousness, but he had been awoken not long after being found and cut down. The hospital had not wanted to notify his father of this, the embarrassment it would have caused, and the end to the financial support that illicitly kept him in there, would have been a blow to them. Yet, somehow his father had found out anyway._

_"You brought this on yourself, Thomas," he had said coldly on his only visit to his son. "I warned you to cease your dangerous endeavors."_

_Thomas, whose face was worn and expressionless, sat opposite his father in silence. There was no remorse in the older man's voice. Just the exasperated look of a man wishing to rid himself of a disappointing child._

_"I couldn't help it," Thomas said finally. His voice was quiet but he brought his tired eyes up to meet his father's. "I couldn't help who I loved."_

_"Do you think I care who you fuck?" He spat heatedly. "If only it had just been a matter of a discreet affair, I could have overlooked that! But you had to get involved in political matters you couldn't hope to fully comprehend. The amount of embarrassment, the amount of shame you were set to bring on this family with what you were proposing. That was something I couldn't allow."_

_"So you condemned me to rot away in here for the rest of my life," Thomas said as he looked around the darkened, horrible room. "For political gain?"_

_"To preserve our legacy!" He corrected, "to see our family--to see this empire--prosper, I would have done it a hundred times over."_

_Thomas said nothing. He couldn't bring himself to even look at the man now. Every inch of him burned with fury. He had thought himself spent of all emotion except despair. But now he found himself on fire. His father had never been a loving man, and his approval was something Thomas had stopped seeking long ago. But this? This callousness was beyond what he, in all his damnable idealism, had thought anyone capable. He had almost preferred it when he had thought that this had been motivated solely by a disgust at his choice of sexual partners. But to know that his own father could destroy his life, and the lives of his wife and his lover for political gain was too much to comprehend._

_"Don't look at me like that, Thomas," His father's voice softened, if only a little, "I've come here to say goodbye. After today we will never see each other again."_

_Thomas had suspected as much, but his father had been dead to him long before this day. He had died the day that he had betrayed him, the day that he had Thomas locked away in this place. What Thomas hadn't known was that this would be the last day of his own life, in a way._

_"Thomas Hamilton is no more," Alfred said. "You are dead, legally speaking."_

_"I beg your pardon?" Thomas was taken aback by this._

_"You have a choice," Alfred explained, "You can leave this place, leave England, and never come back. You will live out your days in Boston, in a house that I own but will deed to you. Or, you can choose to stay here. There will be no escape, no reprieve. The world believes you are dead, no one will come for you now."_

_And Thomas knew exactly who 'no one' was. He also knew that if the earl wanted him declared dead, he had just enough power to have it done. Knew that word would reach James and Miranda somehow, that they would be devastated. He also knew that, after all of this he should have never agreed to take anything from his father. Not the offer of freedom, or the promise of somewhere to go once he had it. There was a part of him, the part enraged by the damage this man had caused, that wanted to hurt him, to spend the rest of his days in here just to spite him, in the vain hope that this would somehow cause him guilt and pain. So that he could go to his grave knowing that he had done this to his own son, rather than allowing him to feel any measure of comfort in allowing Thomas to be released._

_Thomas should have refused, but he couldn't. Couldn't put himself through any more of the torment he had already endured._

_"Just tell me," Thomas said with desperation in his voice. A desperation that he loathed but couldn't mask, "where are they? Surely you know where they went."_

_"I don't know," Alfred said coldly. But for a moment his face softened a little and he continued, "Truly. I tried to track them down, to ensure that they wouldn't cause any more trouble for me, but they've just... vanished."_

_Alfred didn't need to hear Thomas's answer; he knew that there was no decision to be made. It was all the same to him, Thomas would be dead either way. The legacy, the wealth, the titles, they would all pass on to someone else. Thomas would never realize his dream of a prosperous Nassau--everything had already come crumbling down around him. No, he would take the offer; he would leave this life behind him._

_Thomas Hamilton was already dead._

\---

James was seated behind his desk, quietly looking over manifests, trying to work out his next move. Thomas was sitting by the window, gently cradling a book, but staring out at the sea. He saw a dolphin leaping out of the water and back in again, over and over again before disappearing for good beneath the water. For the first time since he found himself aboard this ship, a small smile appeared on his face. 

He turned his head to where James was sitting, and saw that he was looking at him, and for the first time since they have been reunited, Thomas saw a ghost of something familiar on James's face: desire. 

Thomas opened his mouth to speak when they heard the excited shouts from decks above echoing one after another. Landfall. 

James tore his gaze away from Thomas and gave a resigned sigh. He stood up from the desk and put his coat on as he walked towards the door. He paused for a second and looked back to where Thomas was sitting. 

"Coming?" James asked. 

Thomas paused for a moment. He had known he would have to leave to safety--and often solitude--of the cabin, knew he would have to leave the ship for some place unknown to him, but now that the moment had come he was anxious. For what, he didn't know. 

There was a ship full of men out there that would gladly kill him for no other reason than the privilege of his birth. Once he had been a wealthy, titled man. To them he was an extension of the government, of the crown, of the people who meant to kill and take from them. None of those men could know that he's been just as wronged by those entities as they had been. None of them could have known the fire in his blood when he thought of all that he'd lost to them. Thomas had never been one to cower in fear. Never. But this was an alien world, whose populace he couldn't hope to understand. James was little use as a touchstone, as Thomas barely recognized the man he had become.

Even so, he knew he had to leave the ship eventually. 

Above deck the crew scrambled and shouted, frantically preparing to land. Thomas watched quietly as James shouted orders with the kind of fearsome authority he hadn't thought possible from the taciturn, thoughtful man he had met all those years ago. 

Though he had read about Nassau and New Providence Island, the reality was no less startling. There was a chaos and commotion to the island, but an easy simplicity as well. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced in London or Boston. As he disembarked the longboat and stepped onto the sand with unease, he felt the rush of the others racing onto the shore and disappearing into the crowd. He looked curiously at James who just smiled a little at him. 

"This has been a very long haul," James explained as they made their way into the town. "The men are anxious to visit certain... establishments." 

Thomas didn't need any further explanation, instead his mouth twisted into a wry smile of his own as he watched them hurry down the path and make their way into a ramshackle building with topless women standing about in front of it. He took in the scene around him with a mixture of relish and sadness. This was not the civilized, cultivated town that he had wanted to turn it into, but as he looked to James he could see that the man was at ease here. This was home to him now, and for Thomas that was enough. 

They made their way into the interior to where James had shared a home with Miranda for nearly ten years. The journey didn't take long on horseback, but by the time they reached the house the sun was already setting. It was a small house, smaller even than his home in Boston, but nothing would ever compare to the squalor of the asylum, against which Thomas would compare every place he'd sleep until the day he died. He looked around silently, taking in the harpsichord and an elegant porcelain tea set. 

"Miranda's?" Thomas asked quietly as his fingers traced gently over the keys of the instrument. 

James nodded, though Thomas didn't see. He was too busy studying the items around him, adjusting to his new home. Neither of them had spoken about it, but they both knew. Thomas, who, only a week ago had been embarking on a journey back to England, for reasons that seemed so distant now, would not be leaving this island. Not without James. 

James never did have to make the offer of his home vocally; he said it in the way that he had gently placed his hand on Thomas's shoulder and guided him in, and the nervous little look he gave Thomas as he inspected the place. 

"It's lovely," Thomas said with a smile, but his eyes kept glancing over at the little stool where Miranda would sit and play. 

They were, both of them, irrevocably altered by loss. Tainted by it. Each had been transformed by the demons they had faced. Thomas had come out the other side, damaged, but whole. But James? Thomas could see now that he had been dragged down with them, and he didn't know if he'd ever find his way back. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I had intended to finish this before I went on vacation but that didn't happen. Sorry for the delay!

"There was a time I thought I'd never be warm again," Thomas said quietly.

James didn't know how long he'd been sitting there in the darkened room. When he had returned after weeks at sea he'd found the house dark, no lanterns or candles lit and no other signs of life. He’d rushed into the house in a sudden panic, worried that Thomas had somehow vanished. Once inside, James had gone straight for Thomas’s bedroom. He’d found him there, sitting in the dark with his head in his hands, perfectly still. 

"…and I was certain that I’d never again know what it was to not feel hunger." His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. 

James took slow, cautious steps into the room, his tired eyes straining in the dark to see the face of the man before him, even as he lifted his head out of his hands. 

"Hunger," Thomas continued as he turned to look at James, "it was how they kept us compliant." 

As he got closer, and his eyes adjusted to the darkness, James could see his face more clearly. It was pallid, expressionless, and his eyes seemed unable to focus on him or anything else in the room. 

"Are you drunk?" James asked, a little surprised. 

"Probably," was all Thomas said as he looked down at an empty bottle lying near the bed. It would seem that Thomas had developed a taste for rum. 

James took a seat next to Thomas and sighed. Perhaps, in his former life, he would have known what to say. Perhaps then he could have found the right words and a hope for better days and given that to Thomas. It somehow felt as though he owed him that much, at the least. But in this life he had no answers or words of comfort, and so he just sat there in the darkness with him. 

\---

_Recklessness was never something James believed he could afford. Every move he made was calculated, careful. For him, a misstep meant a loss of something he had worked too hard to build--career, respect, lifestyle. Until he met Thomas, these were the most important things in the world. Before Thomas, he hadn't realized that there was anything else to want._

_James had known from an early age that he didn't feel love the way other men did. Ambition had outweighed any desire for a family, and feelings of attraction had been something best left buried in the deepest parts of him. But repression had never been good for James McGraw._

_In the initial weeks after he and Thomas had begun their affair, James had spent nearly every day at the Hamilton residence. Officially, he and Thomas were still ironing out the details of their plans to secure Nassau's future. Something that, in reality, had fallen slightly on their list of priorities._

_But exhilaration gave way to an uneasiness that settled into the pit of James's stomach every time he so much as thought of Thomas. It was a strange mixture of anxiety over an affair that had the potential to destroy everything he had built for himself, and a desire to shield Thomas from any of those same consequences. It was an anxiety over another's wellbeing that he had never quite felt before. This feeling had made him profoundly uncomfortable, and yet he never wanted it to leave him._

_But soon even those feelings shifted into something new. James wasn’t sure when it happened, when he became a believer. Thomas’s lofty goals and idealism bordered on naivety. That, James had always known. How he could even begin to believe that, in the face of so much opposition, he could change a system that was so staunchly entrenched, change the minds of men who would rather wage war and prosper? James knew the risks, knew it could undo all of them, but at some point, he stopped caring. Self-preservation became secondary, unimportant, in the face of helping Thomas to reach his goals._

_“One day,” Thomas had said as the two of them stood, a little too close, a little too aware of each other, crouched over a desk and an endless compilation of notes and testimony of merchants and naval officials, “we can be free of this.”_

_James had envisioned a very different life. He had envisioned a life devoid of family and a permanent home. He had envisioned orders and commands and an endless sea. Part of him was certain he’d die at sea. Drowned, probably. This had been a recurring dream of his, and though it should have felt like a nightmare it never did. There was always a kind of peace in it. But in the deepest parts of him he knew, even this was a lie. James McGraw was a projection of the officer they wanted him to be. Intelligent, mannered, charismatic, and utterly free of disgrace._

_And he’d give it all up, to build the world that Thomas wanted._

_“One day,” James agreed with a smile playing on his lips, “but there are still people in Nassau. People like to whisper and gossip, no matter how far removed from civilization.”_

_“Maybe,” Thomas said, “but we’ll be far away from anyone who could truly harm us.”_

_James’s smile faded and his face became grave, “people have the power to harm us wherever we go. There is no safe place, not completely.”_

_Thomas’s own smile faltered and he gave James a searching look. “You really believe that, don’t you?”_

_James’s eyes flickered to the desk, suddenly ashamed that his belief had wavered. Suddenly ashamed that for all his new found hope, Thomas’s light wasn’t enough to drive out all of James’s darkness. Because he knew the truth that Thomas couldn’t. That there was no true refuge waiting for them in the new world. It was simply a place to start._

\--- 

Thomas had never wanted to live in silence. He had made no secret of the fact that he was unhappy here and each moment they spent together, James half expected it would be the moment Thomas announced that he was leaving. Returning to a place James knew he could never follow. Their lives together on New Providence Island had been distant, wary, and secretive, and whatever intimate connection they had once shared appeared to have died with their former selves. 

Truth be told, James hadn't been sure he wanted to begin a new one. But then he walked into the front room one morning and saw Thomas was sitting by the window. In the daylight Thomas looked so much like he once had, though there were a few more lines on his face, a few more grays had worked themselves into his blond hair. Watching Thomas sitting in the sunlight, with melancholy so evident on his face, James knew that whatever he had once felt, it wasn’t something that would ever truly die. 

Thomas tore his gaze from the sunlit fields and dusty road and turned to where James was standing. He shot James a wry little smile that told him that he’d been caught staring, and James couldn’t help but think of all those times he’d seen that look, that smile, all those years before. 

“What’s that?” Thomas asked, nodding at the book in James’s hands. 

“Don Quixote,” James said, placing the book on the table next to Thomas. 

Thomas opened the cover and raised his eyebrows in surprise, “it’s in Spanish.” 

“I may have picked up a few words here and there,” James said with a smile, “We sold most of the books we found aboard the Spanish warship, but I kept this one. It had reminded me of you.. and Miranda. Now that you’re here, I suppose you’d get more use out of it than me."

Thomas looked up from the book and when his eyes met James’s there was a light there that James had feared he’d never see again. 

"Thank you," Thomas said with a sad little smile, but the light in his eyes remained, and he placed his hand gently on James's. 

James's face hardened at the touch as he desperately tried to fight the sudden pounding in his chest at the contact. The two of them had occupied very separate spaces since finding each other again, and the entire time it had been as though they were holding their breaths. The spark that flew through his veins upon contact that morning was like the long awaited exhale. Thomas stood up from his seat and moved towards James slowly but without a hint of apprehension. 

"We can't keep living the way we have been," Thomas said softly as he placed a hand gently on James's shoulder. 

James closed his eyes, "you're a weakness," he admitted plainly, "and now more than ever I can't afford to be vulnerable. Not again." 

"Then what's the point of all this?" Thomas asked, "What's the point of any of this if we can't be happy?" 

"I've started something, and I intend to finish it." 

"There _is_ no end to this. That was made all too apparent the day they took me away.”

James backed away from him, though every part of his wanted to be closer, and said nothing. No amount of explaining, arguing, or manipulating would make Thomas understand. He could see through all of the things that made James so good at drawing people in, enticing them to his side. 

“I can’t just sit here and watch you destroy yourself!” Thomas cried out in anger and frustration, “I love you too much.” 

There was a long silence after that. James could recall similar words spoken in the midst of heated arguments, could remember Miranda’s desperate pleas for him to end this perpetual violence. 

James’s voice was strained when he finally replied, but in the quiet of the moment the words were so clear they almost echoed throughout the house.

“You’re in love with a dead man, Thomas.” 

\--- 

_"Tell me about the ocean,” Thomas said sleepily._

_In the early morning stillness it was easy to forget about the relentless pull of the ocean, and that thing it inspired inside of James, that bleakness. It was easy to forget about the pressures of the Navy and the political landmines the two of them were desperately trying to navigate. Or that, in the outside world, the simple act of a man laying in bed with another man, as they did at that moment, so very much in love, had the power to destroy them both._

_“It’s…” James struggled to find a word that could appropriately describe the wildness, the depth, or the emptiness. “Vast.”_

_Thomas gave a little snort, “is that all?”_

_“There’s a kind of power in it. It can make a man hard, cruel,” he said truthfully with a cold and distant look in his eyes. “When I’m out there, it’s like the best parts of me get buried somewhere.”_

_Thomas saw his sadness and his darkness, James knew. He was past trying to hide it from him. But when Thomas looked at him, it was like he saw something else as well. He could see past the demons and the ghosts, he could see a brightness that James had never even known he had possessed. A light inside of him that he feared would disappear into the sea altogether if he let it._

_“The best parts of you may get buried,” Thomas told him slowly and thoughtfully, carefully reaching out to brush a strand of James’s hair out of his face and pushing it behind his ear, “but it doesn’t disappear altogether.”_

_“Not when I’m with you,” James admitted solemnly. He tried to smile but couldn’t, and the both of them knew that they had stumbled onto a dangerous truth._

_That the best parts of him were being held hostage._

\---

Everything ends. Everything. The idea that his vendetta could end in anything other than his own death was something that James had not seriously considered in some time until Miranda had uttered the name ‘Abigail Ashe’—but then everything had collapsed around him. 

Back in London, back when everything they wanted had seemed almost obtainable, a happy ending for him was one lived just as carefully, just as warily, but contained within an island instead of a gossip hungry city ready to tear them apart. That would have been enough for him, because in his mind he never could shake the belief that there was no place that was truly safe. But then they took Thomas, and any notion of a happy ending went with him. Not even revenge could satisfy him. In the end, revenge had only served to solidify his new place in the world.

It had taken a gunshot to snap him out of whatever dark and violent trance that had taken hold of him and not let go. A gunshot that had been meant for him, but had missed by a rather wide margin, as it turned out. Harding had been the attacker’s name, a member of his own crew, angry and drunk, and who had been unable to let go of the resentment that had been festering over the last few months, had charged at him like a wild bear the moment he set foot in the tavern. Harding had landed a few good blows before James could throw one back but when he did it hit so hard against the side of his mouth it drew blood and the other man staggered back, momentarily stunned. Billy had intervened then, stepping in between them, using his body to shield James and restrain Harding. It had been Billy’s pistol that that Harding went for, so quick the shot had already rang out before anyone knew what had happened. 

The momentary relief that washed over him at not being shot vanished the instant he heard the surprised gasp and a sudden cry of pain directly behind him. He turned, fearfully, and saw that it was Thomas, pale and in shock. Thomas looked down, stunned, to see blood seeping into his shirt, and staggered forward. It was James’s arms that he fell into. James clutched Thomas’s side, desperately trying to stop the bleeding, all the while shouting frantically for Doctor Howell or any other that might be nearby. The rest of the crowd looked on, stupefied, at the Captain as he anxiously held onto the bleeding man. 

Later, James would ask him what he had even been doing there. The only reply that he would get from Thomas was that he had been tired of drinking alone. But as Thomas lay in a back room in the tavern, on a bed that had once been Eleanor’s, unconscious and pale, James could think of nothing except how this had all been his fault. If he hadn’t pushed his crew so hard, if he had spent more time listening to them, if he hadn’t chosen this life to begin with… 

\---

It was several hours before Thomas regained consciousness. He tried to sit up but grimaced in pain and quickly gave up the attempt. James could see that in the dim candlelight he was struggling to recognize his surroundings. James watched as a look of confusion utter panic that appeared on his face, could see him push through the pain as he tried again to sit, strain showing on his face as he finally forced himself up despite the visible dizziness. 

James was nearly overwhelmed by relief. He exhaled loudly, sharply, as though he had only just remembered to breathe.

Thomas stopped trying to recognize his surroundings and instead focused his attention on James who had been sitting, bloody and bandaged, at the foot of his bed. 

“How are you feeling?” James asked, more than a little concern in his voice. 

Thomas just gave him a small smile while suppressing another grimace and said, quietly, “I’ve survived worse.” 

“There was a moment tonight when I honestly thought you were going to die,” James began slowly, carefully weighing his words as he spoke them, his eyes focusing on the blank wall behind Thomas, “There are so many things I can’t undo…”

He looked to Thomas then, with so much pain in his eyes Thomas’s own widened in response. “I don’t even know why I’m doing this anymore. This crusade I’m on has gotten everyone else I care about killed. And seeing you in danger? I don’t think I could survive losing you again.” 

James placed a gentle hand on top of Thomas’s. Thomas looked down at the hand and then back up at James. Even in his weakened state, even in James’s own pain and exhaustion, that spark had returned. It would never leave. 

“I’m done,” James said quietly, choking down the emotion that had bubbled up inside of him as he said it. “I’m done,” he repeated more firmly. 

James gave his hand a little squeeze and leant forward, placing the gentle kiss on his forehead. He knew in that moment that he had made the right decision. Since Thomas reentered his life, he had lost his focus on his mission. The anger and the fire still raged inside of him, but his quest to save Nassau seemed less important somehow. This place had nearly destroyed him, and he was willing to make that sacrifice. But he wasn’t prepared to give up the one thing he had left to lose. 

He didn’t know how long they sat like that, but when he finally opened his eyes he saw in his periphery that they were no longer alone. Silver was standing on the other side of the room, watching them carefully. His expression was both surprised and discerning. James didn’t know how long he had been watching them, or what he had overheard, but he found to his own surprise that he didn’t much care. 

James’s face hardened as he looked his quartermaster directly in the eyes and said resolutely, “Tell the crew they’ll be needing to find a new captain.” 

Silver’s face was unreadable but he nodded and, after lingering for a moment, turned and walked away. 

The truth was, James McGraw was dead and buried. The last part of him had died with Miranda. But James Flint would never be returned to the sea, not the man nor the name. He would live the rest of his life quietly, and without fear. Whatever war he started would be carried on without him, and if a former crewmember crossed his path in the town one day, they’d nod as they pass him by, and whisper to their companions as they do that this was the man who had loved so fiercely he nearly tore the world apart.


End file.
